


of all the fights in all the back alleys in all of new york

by ataxophilia



Category: Daredevil (TV), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Deaf Clint Barton, First Meetings, Gen, dumpster bros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-21
Packaged: 2018-03-23 00:27:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3748660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ataxophilia/pseuds/ataxophilia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Huh.” Clint runs a hand through his hair again, stumped – but amused – by this development. “Deaf and blind. This is like something out of a sitcom.” </p>
<p>The dumpster bros meet for the first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't even finished Daredevil yet but somehow, to my eternal shame, Clint and Matt being dumpster bros is Very Very Important to me. 
> 
> For Hailey, because she wanted it, and because she's my worst enabler when it comes to these two. 
> 
> As a note -- Clint is deaf and his aids aren't working 100% in this fic. I've had issues with my hearing on and off all my life but I've never actually had hearing aids, so while I've drawn on my own experience here, it might not be completely accurate. Please don't hesitate to let me know if that's the case. 
> 
> Unbeta'd, so please also point out any glaring errors.

Clint’s aids are on the fritz.

It’s not exactly surprising, because he’s standing in the aftermath of one of those brutal ten-on-one brawls that his tracksuits are so fond of. It’s not a tactic Natasha’s fond of, so he’s always been pretty sure it’s not just a Russian thing, but these guys were definitely Russian and yet definitely not dressed in cheap maroon tracksuits, so it’s possible he should rethink that theory.

Either way, Clint never comes out of these fights in a good way, although it helped that this time he had help. Or, well, he was the help. The tracksuit-less Russians were already beating the shit out of the man standing across from Clint in a black get-up and matching mask when Clint arrived on the scene and joined in, because, well, Russians in a ten-on-one brawl.

It’s not that Clint thinks all the Russians in Brooklyn are part of his tracksuit mob. Just the ones who enjoy ganging up on do-gooders.

And Clint’s pretty sure the guy in the mask is a do-gooder. He carries himself like one, for one; the same angry-but-righteous slant to his shoulders that Steve gets when he’s about to start a fight or a lecture. And Clint’s been hearing things about a masked man making trouble for the nastier guys down in Hell’s Kitchen. Vigilantes have been on the rise since the Chitauri invasion, but most of them are ex-SHIELD agents, the ones who don’t think the cosy security jobs they were given after SHIELD folded are enough, and Clint would recognise any of them. This guy is a stranger.

Still, it doesn’t hurt to be cautious. Mr. Masked and Mysterious doesn’t really look like he’d survive another round, but he’s got one fist up anyway, the other pressed against the stab wound Clint saw him take on his left hip. Clint knows just how dangerous a guy who won’t give up is, and he never enjoys being on the wrong side of one.

He clears his throat, trying to think up the quickest way to defuse the situation. Natasha would probably already have this guy giving up his full name and home address, but Clint’s not quite so smooth. Or pretty.

The guy snaps to attention at the sound, head twisting to look directly at Clint. Clint freezes, then lifts his hands slowly, palms out. “Hey, man,” he says, “I don’t know about you, but I’d really rather not get into another fight tonight.”

The masked man hesitates for all of three seconds before relaxing, his fisted hand uncurling and dropping to his side. A crooked smile flashes across his face, and he opens his mouth to reply. Clint throws a quick prayer to whichever deity is laughing down at him this week that his aids will hold out until he gets home, but no such luck. He catches a few vowels, a definite hard k, but not much else.

“Figures,” he mutters, lifting his head to scowl at the sky. He intends it to be too low for the man to catch, but his hearing must be off enough that he’s misjudging his volume, because when he looks back down the man is frowning, confused. “Sorry,” he says, waving a hand at his ear. “I’m, uh, deaf. Can’t hear you.”

The guy tilts his head to one side. Clint imagines he’s be raising an eyebrow under his mask. When he repeats, “Deaf?” it’s exaggerated, loud enough that Clint can hear it despite his futzed aids.

Clint frowns. It’s been a while since he got any shit for his hearing – the Avengers took it surprisingly easily in their varied strides, but then Clint supposes deafness doesn’t really compare to turning into a rage monster or needing an electromagnet in his chest to keep shrapnel out of his heart – but that doesn’t mean he’s forgotten the stigmas. “Yeah, man, deaf” he says, voice flat. “That a problem?”

The guy pauses again, and then shakes his head, another smile on his lips. “Not a problem,” he replies, still talking louder than usual so Clint’s aids still pick him up, which Clint appreciates despite himself. He’s better at lip reading than most thanks to his eyes, but it’s not really enough to get by on without signs or at least some sound. Most people don’t seem to realise it’s not a cure-all. This guy, though, nudges one of the bodies on the ground with his foot, a purposefully obvious action, and says, “The Russians. Thanks.”

“Oh.” Clint scratches behind his head, glancing down at the mobsters. “That’s alright, man. Pretty sure you did most of the work.” It’s true – Clint helped, sure, but the guy handled almost all the Russians on his own. “Besides,” Clint adds, because what the hell, it’s not like his face hasn’t been splashed all over the media these past few years. “S’what I do. Well. Part of what I do.”

The guy’s mouth twists as he looks between Clint and the men on the floor. Again, Clint’s pretty sure there’s eyebrow action going on under his mask. “What?”

“As in, what do I do?” Clint laughs awkwardly. “Well, hell, nobody’s mixed me up with Iron Fist for a while, I guess I am due an ego check. You don’t recognise me?”

The guy shakes his head and says something too low for Clint to catch. He grimaces. “Sorry, but you gotta speak up. Unless you know how to sign,” he adds, hopeful. He gets a rueful smile from the guy, and then another shake of his head.

“Sorry,” the guy says, louder again. “No signs.” And then, after a short pause, like he’s debating whether or not to say it, “I can’t see.”

“You can’t,” Clint parrots, fairly sure he’s misheard, although ‘see’ isn’t exactly a hard word to miss. “See?”

The guy’s smile twists into something wry as he waves a hand in front of his eyes like Clint had for his ears earlier. “Blind,” he says, clear enough that there’s no doubting it.

“Huh.” Clint runs a hand through his hair again, stumped – but amused – by this development. At the very least, it explains the guy’s easy accommodation of Clint’s hearing. “Deaf and blind. This is like something out of a sitcom.”

The guy laughs, and even though Clint can’t hear it he likes the way it fits what he can see of the guy’s face. He’s always liked people who laugh at his jokes. “You know,” he says, tucking his hands into his pockets. Time to go out on a limb. “We’re a long way from Hell’s Kitchen.”

The guy stiffens fast as a bullet, the smile dropping from his face. Clint smiles grimly. “Yeah, I figured you were the same guy starting all the fights down there.” The guy shifts back into a defensive stance, hands staying where they are but feet slipping apart, weight on the balls of his feet. Clint exhales slowly. “I meant it when I said I didn’t want a fight,” he says, keeping his voice light. Blind or not, the guy obviously has a good idea of what’s going on around him – Clint saw plenty of evidence of that in the fight – so Clint keeps himself in a neutral stance, just in case. “I’m not with any of those guys. I’m not an enemy.”

“Not a friend,” the guy says, and even with his futzed aid Clint can tell how tired those words are.

Clint shrugs. “Not yet.” The guy still looks sceptical, so Clint sighs and plays his master card. “My name’s Clint,” he says. “Clint Barton.”

The guy inhales sharply. In Clint’s ongoing mental picture of what’s under the mask, his eyes widen. He rocks back onto his heels, his defensive pose all but forgotten.

“Hawkeye,” he says, mostly to himself, but that’s a word Clint’s learnt to recognise on anyone’s lips. “The Avenger?”

“I’m with the big guys, yeah. I can, like, call Captain America or Iron Man or something if you want proof.” The guy laughs again, a little more tension draining away from him. Clint’s shoulder slump slightly with the victory. “Look, I’m not telling you to trust me, but I just fought these guys off with you, and I’ve got an apartment like ten blocks from here. Let me stitch you up, and then I swear I’ll let you walk right back out.” He nods to the wound on the guy’s hip, only remembering at the last minute that he won’t see it. “That cut can’t wait until you get back to Hell’s Kitchen.”

The guy wavers. Clint can’t read his face, but he doesn’t have to to know that the guy’s caught between the very real facts of his multiple injuries and the equally real fact that, despite his credentials, Clint is a stranger. A dangerous stranger.

Eventually, though, the guy sighs and says, “Do you often invite bleeding strangers back to yours?”

Clint doesn’t quite catch all of it – his aids are getting more useless the longer he leaves them in – but he’s pretty sure he’s got enough to smile widely and say, “You wouldn’t be the first, don’t worry.” The guy laughs again, and it’s enough for Clint to add, “And you wouldn’t be a stranger if you told me your name.”

It’s a gamble – Clint doesn’t need to know the guy’s name, and doubtless the guy knows that; asking could scare him off – but he’s good in a fight and he’s been laughing at Clint’s jokes, so Clint risks it. Plus, well, it’s always good to have an ally against the Russians, even if they don’t turn out to be facing the same group. There’s always a chance that Russian-mob-enmity might be transferrable between Russian mob groups.

The guy just smiles. It’s got that same tiredness in it, like maybe the guy wouldn’t have been talking to Clint when he started out, and Clint understands, he knows how this kind of job can wear you down. Now, the guy says, “Matt,” without looking away from Clint, after only a few beats of silence.

“Matt,” Clint repeats, to make sure he’s got it right, and the guy – Matt – nods. “So, Matt. You coming back to mine?”

This time, Matt only hesitates for a beat before nodding. He picks his way through the bodies – all unconscious, Clint notes, not dead – with a surprising grace that Clint will have to remember to ask about later, once he’s got his spare aids in and he’s stitched up the nastiest cuts on the both of them. Maybe they’ll get pizza. Either way, Clint’s hoping they can hold off a little while on the heavy conversation, so when Matt reaches him, he runs his eyes over him and says, “I like the outfit, by the way. Very Princess Bride, Man in Black.”

Matt’s smile is small but already looks a little fond. “I’m going to take that as a compliment,” he says, close enough now that Clint picks pretty much the whole sentence up, “Seeing as I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You should,” Clint reassures him. “Wesley is a very attractive man. Gets the girl in the end. You could look worse.”

Matt nods down to his hip, the cut still bleeding through his gloves. “Somehow I doubt that,” he says, and Clint laughs, slinging his arm over Matt’s shoulders and ignoring the pain that shoots down his side at the action. He’s pretty sure he hasn’t broken any ribs. He’s still breathing fine, at least. That’s enough for now.

“Nah, man,” he says, starting them both moving out onto the main street. “I have definitely seen worse than this,” and, before Matt can say anything else, hoping desperately that his aids will hold onto what little strength they have left until they get back to his apartment, Clint launches into a story involving his own personal brand of Russian mobster, three half-finished prototype arrows gone badly wrong, and a half-hour game of deadly hide and seek in a laundromat.

And, well, if it makes Matt laugh more often than the walk makes him hiss in pain, that’s just a bonus victory.


	2. i think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re gonna have a lot more complaints about my bedside manner once I’m done,” Clint says.
> 
> Clint stitches Matt up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know how sometimes you write something and you think that'll be the end of it but it just won't leave your head? Yeah. 
> 
> Still unbeta'd. Sorry!

“You know,” Matt says, once Clint has deposited him on the sofa and dug out one of his spare aids, which is enough to get by on, at least, “The last person to stitch me up was a nurse, so my standards are pretty high.”

Clint’s already got his extensive first aid kit to hand – it was the first place he checked for his aids, but apparently past-Clint figured that’d be too logical, so the one has found was in his mug cupboard; god only knows where its pair is – so he turns to Matt in time to catch his smile.

“You’re in a pair of black sweatpants and a matching top, I don’t think your standards are allowed to be that high,” Clint points out. “It’s like a basic rule of superheroing. Unless you’re in a proper uniform, you put up with hasty home-fixes.”

Matt flinches ever so slightly at the ‘superhero’ quip. Clint doesn’t comment. He hasn’t been in the whole vigilante position – he went straight from petty criminal to SHIELD agent – but he gets not being comfortable with the s-word being thrown around. From what he could tell in the fight, Matt doesn’t have any more powers than Clint does himself, except maybe scarily good spatial awareness for a blind guy. And for guys like them, most days even being called a hero feels too extreme, let alone anything super.

Instead, he says, “This nurse of yours, they find you mid-fight, too?” as he cleans the deep bowl he owns for this exact purpose and fills it with water, then carries the whole lot over to the couch.

“Worse.” Matt grimaces. “She found me in a dumpster.”

Clint snorts, dropping to his knees by the side of the couch. “She know you?” When Matt shakes his head, he huffs out a low laugh. “Hell of a first impression.”

“It certainly got her attention,” Matt agrees.

“Oh?” Clint raises an eyebrow at Matt’s tone and then, a beat later, remembers that Matt can’t see it. “Not even got a real suit yet and you’re already pulling damsels in distress. Guess the Man in Black look really does work.”

Matt shrugs and only grimaces a little at the movement, which Clint takes as a good sign. “She really isn’t what I’d call a damsel in distress. And you did say he was an attractive guy.”

Clint laughs again, says, “And I’m not taking that back.” Matt grins. Clint smiles to himself, snaps on a pair of disposable gloves – he learnt their importance after some nasty infected wounds from an op gone wrong in Morocco – and reaches for the bottom of Matt’s top before hesitating. “I’m gonna push your shirt up to check your chest, you okay with that?” he says. It’s a moot question, more or less – he’s already convinced Matt to let him fix his wounds – but Clint figures Matt would probably appreciate a little prior notice before a stranger he can’t see starts stripping him. It’s only polite.

Another smile tugs at Matt’s mouth, a warmer one this time, and he nods. “Go crazy.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you knew me,” Clint warns, already tugging Matt’s shirt up to his chest so he can study the mess of bruises on his stomach.

“Not great at bedside manner?” Matt parries. Clint can feel him actively forcing himself to relax as Clint runs practiced fingers up his ribs, pressing carefully at each one.

Even with only one aid in, Clint’s fairly sure he doesn’t miss any of the tell-tale signs of a broken rib. He glances up at Matt anyway, just in case, and puts his best stern-Katie voice on to say, “If you’re planning on, like, breathing through the pain or anything like that it’ll just fuck you over next time you get into a fight. It’s really in your best interests to let me know when something hurts.” Matt chuckles, and keeps his face turned towards Clint so Clint can study it as he runs his hands back down, checking each rib a second time.

Satisfied, he leans back, grabbing some gauze pads from his first aid kit. Matt managed to avoid doing his ribs any major damage, but there are still a bunch of shallow cuts on his sides and chest that need disinfecting and bandaging, and that gash on his hip that’ll probably need stitches. Clint’s a decent field medic, and he’s dealt with plenty of wounds much worse than Matt’s under much worse conditions, but it’s not going to be a fun ride for Matt.

But then, from the fading marks on Matt’s chest, this isn’t anything new for him.

“You’re gonna have a lot more complaints about my bedside manner once I’m done,” Clint says, dipping a pad in the water. “I’m gonna clean out these cuts on your torso first, okay? Probably have to bandage them up, too.”

Matt nods, head dropping back into a more comfortable position on the arm of the couch, and Clint gets to work.

Clint washes the cuts out as carefully as he can, mindful that the adrenaline from the fight will have all but worn off by now, so Matt will be starting to feel his beating. He still gets a couple of flinches, but Matt’s face stays still and calm. After a while, though – and after a particularly nasty wince – that starts to worry Clint a little. He knows from experience that sometimes withdrawing into your own mind isn’t the best option, so he clears his throat quietly and says, “Your nurse, you said she’s not a damsel in distress?”

It takes a little while for Matt’s face to change, but eventually he tilts his face in Clint’s direction and smirks slightly. “She’d probably kill you for calling her that,” he says, and even though his voice is a little rough Clint can hear the smile there.

“I’m guessing she knows about all of—” Clint supresses the urge to gesture at Matt’s bruises “—this.”

“Hard to hide it from her,” Matt says, laughing lowly, “What with the whole mask thing going on.”

Clint pauses. “You were wearing that when she fished you out of the trash?” Matt nods, and Clint exhales slowly. “You’re either the luckiest son of a bitch out there, or—no, you know what, I can’t think of any other explanations. It’s gotta be luck.”

Matt laughs again, and then winces when it pulls at his now neatly bandaged cuts. “You don’t think my charms and good looks helped?”

“Not even Captain America could charm his way out of that situation – which I know for a fact, by the way, because I was the one who had to explain to a poor old Puerto Rican woman why there was a man dressed as the American flag in her garbage.” Clint finishes taping the final bandage down, grinning at the memory. “I held that over his head for about a week, and then I got knocked out and left in the alley behind some seedy club, so I lost my rights to laugh.”

Matt’s grinning, too. Under the mask that he’s still wearing – Clint respects secret identities enough to leave him that cover – Clint think maybe he’s got his eyebrows raised, too. “That beats a dumpster?”

Clint bites down on the inside of his cheek, flushing slightly, and says, “It does when you’re found by a couple of guys who fall over you trying to find a good place for a quick blowjob.”

That gets a choked-off burst of laughter from Matt, which makes Clint smile. The blank look from earlier is completely gone from Matt’s face – when he gets his breath back, his mouth settles into a small smile. It looks better on him.

“Okay,” Matt says. “That might beat a dumpster.”

Clint hums his agreement. “I definitely didn’t get a free nurse out of the experience. We don’t all have your luck.”

“I’d offer to share, but you seem to have everything pretty much under control.”

Clint snorts, stripping off his bloodied gloves and pulling a clean pair on. “Oh, you have no idea how wrong you are,” he says, leaning forward again. “I need to sort out the cut on your hip, okay? I’m gonna go grab some stuff to sterilise my kit, I’ll be back in a second.”

Finding the hydrogen peroxide he’s got hidden away in a cupboard that Lucky can’t reach, even when he somehow finds his way onto the counters, puts Clint’s aid-less ear towards Matt, which makes him feel jumpy, even though he trusts the guy. He blames it on residual adrenaline and tries to ignore it – but it’s still a relief when he grabs the bottle and the shallow dish next to it and turns back around to find Matt still in the same position, face turned towards Clint.

“You okay?” Matt asks as Clint makes his way back over, and Clint pauses slightly, wondering what gave his momentary nerves away. He hadn’t tried to hide the tension in his shoulders while he’d been turned away but he’d kept his breathing even and hadn’t fumbled the bottle, so Matt shouldn’t have heard anything that gave him away.

He considers asking as he settles back down next to the couch, placing the dish by his side and filling it with hydrogen peroxide, but decides against it. He’s already pried enough secrets from Matt – it won’t kill him to not know this one.

Instead, he fishes out his needle kit and drops a needle and holder into the chemical dish to sterilise it, then looks back up at Matt.

“I’m not the one with a nasty gash in my hip,” he says, tapping one finger lightly against his leg to keep count of the seconds as he speaks.

Matt half-smiles. “I find it hard to believe you walked out that fight uninjured.”

“Hey, I didn’t say that.” Clint shrugs, reaching up to rub at the ache in his side that will undoubtedly be a beautiful mess of bruises tomorrow morning. “I’m plenty bruised, a few cuts on my arms, nothing I can’t handle.” He drops his hand from his ribs and presses two fingers gently to Matt’s thigh, just under the end of the cut. “Pretty sure this sucker takes priority.”

Matt makes an unconvinced noise, but Clint tuts, cutting him off before he can say anything. “Trust me, I’m not letting you do anything until I’ve sorted it out. It’s not worth the fight.” He keeps his fingers on Matt’s leg until Matt sighs and mutters something too low for Clint to catch, relaxing back into the couch.

Clint nods to himself, then picks the needle and holder out of the hydrogen peroxide and drops them onto some more clean gauze pads to dry.

“Alright.” He turns his attention back to Matt’s leg, plucking at the waistline of Matt’s pants. “I’m gonna pull your sweats down a little, clean the cut out, and then stitch it up. We good with that?”

“And you haven’t even bought me dinner yet,” Matt says, dryly, but he nods, so Clint pulls the fabric away from the wound and then drags the pants out of the way.  

It takes a little while to clean, mostly because Clint wants to avoid hurting Matt as much as possible, but eventually Clint’s satisfied with it. He dumps the pads with the others from earlier and digs a spool of thread out of his kit.

“This is gonna hurt like a bitch,” he warns, glancing up at Matt’s face again. “You want anything for the pain? Ibuprofen? Local anaesthetic? Slightly dubious Russian vodka?”

Matt smiles faintly and shakes his head. “I’ll survive.” Clint pulls a face – he usually requires at least the vodka before stitching himself up – and starts to turn back to Matt’s hip, but Matt opens his mouth, as if to add something, and then pauses.

Clint waits.

Eventually, Matt smiles again, a little sheepish this time, and says, “I wouldn’t mind a beer after, though.”

It’s worth the wait. “That’s a plan I can get behind, man,” Clint says, and the way Matt’s smile turns warm and relieved makes Clint grin widely. “Pretty sure we’ve both earned a couple of drinks. Now.” He catches hold of Matt’s thigh again. “Hold still, or you’ll be wishing you took me up on that anaesthetic.”

Matt tilts his head in a way that Clint figures is his masked equivalent of raising an eyebrow. “That was a serious offer?”

“You’d be surprised how often I have to use it,” Clint tells him, letting go of Matt to pick up his needle and thread it. “Comes in real handy when you’re in the habit of getting into fights with Russian mobsters.”

Matt laughs again. “I can imagine,” he says, rolling his shoulders slightly and settling into a purposefully relaxed position. Even if Clint hadn’t seen the old scars on his torso, it’d be obvious this isn’t his first time being stitched up without any kind of pain medication. “Thanks for the tip.”

“I’m just full of good advice.” Clint braces himself against the couch, ready with his needle and its holder. “Okay. Deep breath.” Matt inhales obligingly, and Clint sighs out a quiet laugh. “Here we go. Here’s hoping you’ll still be laughing at my jokes once I’m done.”

Somewhat unsurprisingly, Matt takes the stitches like a champ. Clint’s actually pretty proud of his work – they’re some of his neater stitches, and Matt is still smiling when he’s done, although it does admittedly look a little strained.

But he stays for that beer, looking a little ridiculous in his mask and the purple sweatpants Clint lends him to replace his bloodied and torn black pair, and Clint manages to force his number on the guy and drag out a promise that Matt will call him if he plans on getting into any more street brawls.

Clint’s not entirely sure Matt will keep the promise, but it’s a start, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more, I'm very sorry for any issues with how I've written Clint's deafness. I've never used hearing aids, so I don't know how accurate my depiction is.
> 
> I should also note that all my medical knowledge comes from various website I found by googling 'how to clean wounds' and 'how to stitch wounds' and other fun things like that so please don't use the information here as instructions on how to act should you ever find yourself stitching up a masked stranger. It probably won't end well.


End file.
